


hunt you down

by Gay_as_fuck



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, Gen, Mandalorian Culture, Mando'a, Mental Health Issues, Not Beta Read, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23795050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gay_as_fuck/pseuds/Gay_as_fuck
Summary: Boba Fett finds himself faced with his past and takes an offer too good to refuse.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	hunt you down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [livingshitpost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/livingshitpost/gifts).



> This isn't exactly what I intended, but i like it better this way.

Fett doesn't think of his father's fate but, as he gnaws on gornt jerky, he remembers that sticking one's head out is a recipe for getting it cut off. The phantom scent of burning flesh tickles his nose but only for a moment. The stench of blood, sweat, and swamp covers up the smell of his dead father before he can even recognize what's under his nose. He scratches the back of his neck as he chews through overspiced gristle.

His helmet lays on the table next to him, a hair away from his elbow. His fingers itch to don it again but eating in the mask is difficult, especially with such tough meat. He takes shallow breaths of Gulma's rancid air. Even within the bar the air rots. The Gulmarid care greatly for their swamp, letting it bubble and boil with no restriction. The dankness is inescapable, even in the more fortified ports. Here, buried in a native town where the ground squelches under his feet, he waits.

Gulma is not the sort of place an average bounty hunter would expect to find a high paying customer. Fett is no average hunter, he is the sort of man who is sought out. Here, among the dirt and the damned, is where he conducts his business best. So he waits, chews, and does not think about the smell of his father's death or the shifty eyes of the bar's few patrons. When the door finally creaks open, bulging from its wooden hinges in the humidity, Fett does not turn to look.

He swallows the last of his meal and leaves his helmet where it lies. The customer will know who he is without prompting and an uncovered face generally inspires trust. The newcomer orders a drink at the bar before making their way to Fett's corner table. Their cup of fermented sludge, what must be the local specialty, proceeds them by only a moment. They are wrapped in a ratted cloak, murky with pond scum and lichen, one brown eye made visible as they sit.

"Boba Fett, it is a pleasure." A gloved hand, unmistakably humanoid, snakes out from the massive cloak, dragging a folded durasheet under it. The hand returns as quickly as it emerged, leaving the piece between them. Fett does not spare more than a moment for the page, keeping his gaze on the customer.

"Who do you want dead." He does not even spare a greeting. He does not need to mask his business with pleasantry. In the end, his client his hiring him to do work they either won't or can't do themselves. Both parties know that it is a bloody business.

"Straight to the point. The stories were true then." The stranger follows with a hollow laugh. Their voice unsettles something in the back of Fett's head, another unwanted memory shaking lose. He can't place it exactly, it is not a voice he's ever heard before, but it is somehow still entrenched in his past.

"Not every story is true. Yours is there isn't it." He gestures with his knuckle to the folded durasheet. His companion nods and Fett takes the page with practiced ease. The low lighting of the bar makes telling the identity of his companion more difficult than it should be. They intend to maintain their anonymity, something he can respect. Still, his position demands distrust. He flicks his eyes to the paper as he finishes opening it, the reliable material straining under his gloved grip.

The face that stares up at him is his and his father's. The page is marred by swamp mud but the man's face is decorated with scars and tattoos. Fett does not react beyond the slight tightening of his fingers and the clench of his jaw. He is far too good at what he does to let his emotions betray him, so he does not pause to stare. He takes a second, his eyes flicking over the face as is his usual, before setting it facedown on the table. He smells burning flesh and narrows his eyes.

"Why such a high price for a clone? They fall apart quickly." He allows himself this question only.

"He's a killer." The phrase is nearly spat, a gloved hand slamming into the table. The alcohol rocks dangerously, vicious green contents rocking with it. Fett does not blink but he taps the blank side of the durasheet once in consideration.

"You're hiring me to kill him. I need to understand the target if you want them dead." They lift their hand to the drink to steady it and take a long drink. They wipe their mouth of froth after the silence and set it down again. Their motions jostle their hood, revealing more of a human's face. Fett finds, for the second time that night, his eyes glaring back at him. He keeps his mouth shut with enough force to bite off his tongue.

"We were _vod._ He cut my chip from my head, and I cut his. When the damned order was called, he gave me over to save himself. I would kill him myself if I still could." The dark cloak takes on a second meaning. Imagination is for those in more complicated businesses, but he knows injury. Perhaps the smell of dead flesh comes from his companion. 

"Vod?" Fett keeps his voice light. He's heard the word before, a phrase from the barracks and the boys who looked like his father. It is his face now.

"Surely you know it! You're one of us, I spoke to your father once." They strain as they lean forwards, and then think better of it, rocking back again. He is reminded of a place without blood or consequence but bleeding with rain. He cannot be reminded. 

"I am of Mandalore, of course I know." He itches for his helmet but forces his jaw to unclench. "What do they call you? and what did they call him?" 

"Jax, and he was Crix." They reach a hand up to remove their helmet. A tattoo defines their face, the symbol of the Jedi emblazoned on their forehead. It is the same on the durasheet, though Crix's face is not a map of pockmarks and healed bones. 

"I am _solus_ now but you!" There is still a fire in their eyes. Fett meets them with a blank stare. "You are _jatne_ , _kandosii_ , _darasuum_. You can set right what went wrong." Jax gestures with their arm and more of the cloak falls away. On their revealed neck is a scar that seems to stretch all the way around. Fett tightens his fist and does not think. 

"I am a hunter, nothing more. I will find this man if you pay me." He growls as he speaks, bearing his teeth in a sneer. It is met by an eager smile from his companion. They gather something from under their robes and place a hunk of metal on the table. Fett does his best to look unimpressed and pulls the piece closer to himself. 

It does not take even a second of close examination before he can identify what it is. It is a lightsaber, abused by the years and dark with soot, but a saber none-the-less. He ghosts a gloved hand over the buttons and levers, flicking it on in an instant. Jax jumps back, their condition made so much more apparent in the purple glow. 

Fett smiles, really smiles, for the first time in years. There's no happiness in his expression, but there is joy. This is the blade that struck his father down, and now it is his to do with as he pleases. He can sell it to some collector, or for scrap. Either way, it is sure to send the master rolling his grave.

"This is payment enough. Tell me, where can I find him." Perhaps he will keep it for himself, strike this _hut'uun_ with it, and smell his body burn. 


End file.
